


Good Morning, Castiel

by Waywardist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cute, Cute Castiel, Cute Dean, Cute Ending, Cute Sam, Cutesy, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Gen, M/M, Sleep, Sleepiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 10:55:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywardist/pseuds/Waywardist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suffice to say, Castiel is a bit grumpy when he first wakes up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Morning, Castiel

Castiel is grumpy when he first wakes up, much to the amusement and delight of the Winchester brothers. Dean and Sam aren’t really used to Castiel bunking with the two of them, but since the angel pulls his own weight and pitches in even when it isn’t needed, they don’t really complain—besides, it isn’t as if Dean wants him gone. In fact, the hunter nearly clings to the angel, and Sam does sometimes, too. Oddly enough, Castiel is always the last to wake up. Though it’s only been a few weeks, Dean is almost positive that this is Castiel’s new routine; to wake up later than everyone else. Sam, of course, thinks it’s just because the angel isn’t accustomed to the new rooming situation. “Everyone adjusts differently. Maybe his adjusting method is just sleeping in later,” Sam says, pouring himself a cup of water as Dean pours milk into two bowls. “Say what you want, but I just think the dude likes to sleep in. Weird. I always pegged him as an early bird.” Dean quips, a small smile ghosting across his lips. He’s proud of his little play on words, wondering if Sam will get it. Dean looks back over his shoulder at his younger brother with a grin on his face, one that’s asking him, “Get it? Early bird? Because wings?”  
Sam, knowing his brother all too well, shakes his head and sighs, though he smiles nonetheless. He continues on with pouring Dean a cup of coffee, taking both of the cups to the table and setting them down in the seats they usually occupied. Sam wonders how that happens—how people just get used to sitting in certain seats, and somehow, magically, it’s just claimed as yours. People know not to sit in it, because it’s where you always sit. He’s not used to having his own seat, unless the passenger seat of the Impala counted. Sam doubted that it did to most people—but it counted to him. Sliding into the seat—his seat, he notes—he gives a little rested sigh, running his long fingers through his even longer hair. There’s the sound of the milk being put away, and then cereal being poured into the two bowls, and then something else, something faint that Sam nearly has to strain to hear.  
Dean hears it, too, apparently, because he looks over his shoulder again at the doorway—and his face breaks out in one of the widest, goofiest grins Sam has ever seen on his brother. Sam follows Dean’s line of sight and nearly bursts out laughing himself. Castiel stands in the doorway, a mass of annoyance and groggy sleep-hangover. He’s slouching over slightly as though it takes far too much effort to stand up straight, and his hands hang limply in the pockets of the pinstriped pyjama pants he wears. Sam’s eyebrows raise slightly when he sees Castiel’s shirt—a Led Zeppelin shirt? The more Sam focuses on the grey shirt, the more familiar it becomes, until Sam realizes that it’s one of Dean’s shirts, one of his favorites. Sam blinks in confusion and bewilderment, knowing that Dean never lets anyone wear his favorite shirts. But when Sam’s eyes find Dean again, his brother is still smiling widely.  
And Dean can’t help but wonder where Castiel got that fluffy old sky-blue robe from, and he can’t help but notice how low Castiel’s pants hang on his hips, or how the shirt seems to fit him a bit too loosely on his frame. Dean’s emerald eyes trail to the angel’s feet, and he loses it in a fit of laughter, trying his hardest not to stare at the ratty, mangy old too-small bunny slippers that adorn Castiel’s feet. Seriously—where did the dude even get these things? The pyjamas were some of Sam’s old ones, and the shirt was Dean’s, but the robe and bunny slippers? Now that was just hilarious. Soon, Sam’s laughing, too, and Kevin would be laughing if he were there, Dean just knew it. The kid was off reading or doing some other nerdy thing, though. “Why are you laughing?” Castiel asks, though his voice conveys all the annoyance in the world, his voice still thick with sleep as a frown appearing on the angel’s scruffy face. His blue eyes are lidded, nearly half-closed, as though he’s attempting to sleep standing up.   
“No reason.” Sam laughs, as their laughter dies down into small chuckles. “Want anything for breakfast, sunshine?” Dean asks teasingly, though he knows a part of him means it genuinely. He goes back to pouring the cereal, reaching for another bowl and freezing before he gets to it, waiting for Castiel’s response. The angel pointedly ignores his question, shuffling and dragging his feet as he walks to the table and slumps down in the nearest chair—Dean’s chair, Sam notes. “Cas?” Dean repeats, raising his eyebrows. The amused, delighted look remains in his glittering green eyes, the smirk permanently attached to his face more prominent now than ever. Castiel grunts and then pauses, registering everything the boys might have in the kitchen. Castiel grumbles something that sounds like “ticks pups toffee,” and the boys stare at him with confusion. Castiel fixes his gaze on the table and sighs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before continuing. “Six cups of coffee.” He says, nearly demanding it.  
Dean rolls his eyes, though the movement holds no irritation at all. “Right, well, let’s start you off with one cup first.” He says, readying another pot of coffee. He takes the bowls of cereal to the table in the meantime, sliding Sam’s to him and sitting down in the chair that was normally dubbed Kevin’s. Dean leaned an elbow on the table, his chin resting on the palm of his hand as he prodded mindlessly at the cereal with the tip of his spoon. He tried to make it out that he was just waiting for the coffee to be done before he ate, though he couldn’t keep his eyes from sliding to the grumpy little angel every once in awhile; and when they would, his eyes would light up, and he’d get this small smile on his face, one that he’d try to hide in the palm of his hand. Sam pretended not to notice.  
As soon as the coffee was done, Dean got up from the chair, heading over and pouring Castiel a mug before taking it back to him. “There.” He said, sitting back down in the chair. He and Sam ate thoughtlessly, their eyes transfixed on the angel with small grins on their faces, utterly amused by his nearly zombified attitude. Castiel hardly moved, and when he did, his moves were subtle, nearly clumsy. He would take long, deep swigs of coffee before setting the cup down, his eyes occasionally catching Sam’s or Dean’s. Castiel glares at them until they look away, though they remain smiling still. Castiel pouts, slightly upset in his tiredness by their staring and amusement of his sleep-clogged movements and attitude. Castiel was right, though. He did need six cups of coffee before he could even form a coherent sentence.


End file.
